


There But For The Grace

by SeeNashWrite



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen, Introspection, Life Choices, Life Journeys, Theological References, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 00:00:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14779757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeNashWrite/pseuds/SeeNashWrite
Summary: An archangel takes a break from his reconnaissance.





	There But For The Grace

The list grew by the minute, and he had to admit to himself that the mundane task of collecting all his reasons was turning delightful.

The other world hadn’t progressed to this level of corruption; likely it  _would’ve_ , had it not been for the brimstone, but that was neither here nor there. The worlds were identical, he’d learned, at least in the ways that mattered. Time nor space made a difference. Humans were, to be sure, utterly predictable.

Case in point: his most favorite time period from recent past had unfolded in precisely the same manner in both places, so much so he came as near to astonishment as he’d ever been. The roaring twenties were rife with sin, the pompous prohibitionists and the lust-filled liquor vendors, the mobsters with their massacres, and the bankers with their bloated greed. His distaste aside, it was beautiful. It was  _art_ , the way they crafted their depravity. Granted, it was nothing compared to his favorite time of all, but this was understandable; little could live up to Sodom and Gomorrah.

_See there, hunter? I’m a salt-and-burn aficionado._

He’d successfully lulled the man whose body he’d snatched - no, that’s not right. He did not steal. Theft is sin. The hunter had agreed to act as a vessel, it was witnessed, and while there  _was_ deception involved, one in his position must think of the greater good. And it should be noted that he  _did_ exercise benevolence. Angelic vessels did not fare well, exponentially so for archangel vessels, and it was poor form to run through them quickly.  

He knew firsthand how his brothers handled their hosts. Raphael would woo the humans with promises of a glorious afterlife, then promptly expel their souls the moment he got a foothold. Gabriel would talk them into giving up the ghost voluntarily (as Gabriel could talk practically anyone into anything), in an effort to keep himself guilt-free. And as the fall crept closer, Lucifer took to keeping them wide awake, poking, prodding, picking, til slowly but surely the glow faded to embers, finally snuffing them out upon growing bored.

But not him.  _He_ was the best of them all, no sense in being humble. He was different, so he did things differently. He pushed the hunter to the farthest reaches of the mind they shared, threats to family quelling the belligerence surprisingly easily.

 _Are you plotting?_ he’d asked early on, receiving no answer; they both knew it was rhetorical.

As their time together grew, he’d talk to the hunter on occasion - not aloud, of course - when he marveled at the things he observed, breathing it all in. It had been ages since he’d walked the earth peacefully. It was wonder he felt, and he knew it, and it bothered him. He had been tasked with protecting them, once upon a time, and it was easier then, they were more readily awed, or maybe just malleable. He’d begun to consider if subtlety and manipulation might be ideal this go-round, effective as plagues and floods and annihilation had been, albeit temporarily.

He’d been raised by a vengeful God, the new redemptive version that came with the birth of the prophet never quite sitting right with him, but he was an obedient son, absence or no. He was his Father’s  _first_ son, he who was  _of_ God, the first angel there ever  _was_ , no matter what differing legends over the millennia might’ve said. The offenses the rest of the children, celestial-born and earth-bound alike, committed upon God’s creation wouldn’t have been tolerated back then.

Before. Before it all changed, right under his supposed watchful eye. Before he’d laid waste, in heaven and on earth. Before he’d gotten wrapped up in his plans, let his guard down. Before he lost all three of his beloved brothers in one way or another. Before he’d started paying attention again.

He wouldn’t miss anything else.

And so it was that on his fact-gathering strolls, more and more he found himself slowing his pace, pausing, coming to a halt, damn near freezing in place when something would catch his eye, or touch his ear, or invade his nose, the latter of which stopped him cold this evening, just as twilight eased across the buildings around him, and streetlights flickered on, up and down a nondescript street in a nondescript town on one nondescript walk amongst many.

He went further down the sidewalk, and up the block, and continued around a corner, and there it was, the answer to the question of what heavenly smell had wafted his way.

.

> Hallowed Grounds  
>  French and Italian Coffees  
>  est. 1922

.

In his experience, the fates were indeed fickle. On the other hand, he’d done enough surveillance that week to allow for brief relaxation, be someone else for a spell. Seemed the rough-and-tumble hunter had smoothed edges made ragged from eons spent on another plane, made him fractionally more flexible. Teaching lessons could wait one more night, he told himself.

_Meant to be, don’t you think?_

There wasn’t need for food or drink, but the hunter was practically a junkie on both fronts, and the palate was wide. This body was stronger than most, better equipped for him, as tailor-made things  _are_ , of course, but he had not anticipated how demanding it could be, how it would  _crave_ indulgence. Undisciplined. Annoying.  _Distracting_. It was for that last reason he’d give in, keep bites small and sips slow, and the moment there was a sense of satiation, off he -  _they_ \- would go, back on mission.

African coffee was the best, this was not merely a belief but a fact; French he’d always found bland, somehow; Italian was tolerable. He ordered an espresso, tipped well, and the barista behind the former bar said they had servers milling about, one would be by to check in, see if he needed anything else. And despite knowing he’d swallow less than a quarter of the brew, he took a seat at a table, back to people-watching. Not a one was interesting in the least.

He’d noted the woman carrying the steaming metal carafe walking briskly in the direction where he sat, but had already let his eyes roam away by the time she’d gone behind him, and she only had cause to cross his mind when a loud  _CLANK_ hit the air, and the sensation of a third-degree burn called out from his lower right leg and ankle. Several gasps erupted from close-by patrons, someone moaned  _“Oooooh!_ ” in sympathy, and then came the babbling. 

It was the woman, the server, and she was alternating under-breath curses with self-deprecation - S _uch a stupid klutz!_  -  _Why’d I take this fucking job?_  There wasn’t an apology to be found, not a lick of repentance.

She had his attention.

As she made her way around, the carafe - retrieved, now dented and empty - was plunked on his table, causing the espresso to slosh, and she surveyed the mess on the floor, closed her eyes, rubbed them, took a deep breath, then exhaled it far too quickly for it to have been of any use. Her eyes popped open. They instantly lit on his soaked trouser cuff.

“Jesus,” she muttered, flat forehead going to a frown in a nanosecond.

And he frowned, too. Not that he’d been particularly impressed by or had much use for the prophet, nor had he bought into all the trinity talk - he’d found it offensive that  _any_ would be placed by the Father as an equal of sorts - but this  _was_ in the ballpark of blasphemy. Well, then. Another sinner joins the collection.

Now she’d dropped, and he arched an eyebrow as his head tilted down, feeling her rubbing - aggressively - on his shoe, sopping up the spilt coffee with a rag she’d had tucked in her apron’s waistband.

“That pot was still hot as hell, it didn’t get you, did it?” she asked, looking up at him from her kneeling position.

“No,” he lied.

“Oh, thank God. I’d have been… if you’d been burnt, I would’ve… I am  _so_ sorry, sir.”

Penitence looked lovely on her.

“You seem anxious, why don’t you sit, rest for a moment,” he suggested, and gestured to the empty chair across from him.

He kept his eyes locked onto hers; she gave him an odd look in return, but didn’t have time to answer. Another table called out to her, so she broke the stare, told him she’d check on him again later, see if he wanted a refill - anything he wanted, on the house, she added - before rising and leaving his side.

He took her up on it. He paid for the one that followed. And he waited until the patrons had nearly cleared and the lights were being dimmed and the brooms were coming out. Someone else was sent to collect the fee for the still-full third.

_Take a hint._

He followed the advisement - whether it was the hunter’s or some sort of self-prompting, he couldn’t say - and exited, though he didn’t carry on with his reconnaissance, instead going down the tiny alley that led to the back of the building, leaning against a telephone pole that was partially in the shadows, settling in, keeping an eye on the side door of the coffee shop.

.

* * *

.

The hunter spoke up.

_You suck at this._

_Pray tell?_

_Trying to pick up a chick, get laid._

_Orgasms are insufficient reasons for risking the creation of another abomination_.

_Go comb through my greatest hits, then we’ll talk about risks and rewards._

It took a half-hour of darkened silence before he began to grow irritable, and he stood from his lean, was straightening his overcoat when the door opened. She spotted him, pretended like she didn’t, so he took a few steps in her direction. He was just about to speak when she whipped around, jerking something from her pocket. She immediately squirted a caustic fluid onto him, which did nothing, save prompting a confused expression to come across his now damp face.

_Oh, for crying out—-_

_Hush._

She coughed several times as a breeze carried the mist her way, though a subtle wave of his hand served to make it disappear, and soothed her stinging eyes and scratchy throat. He pulled out his handkerchief and blotted the moisture coating his cheeks. She watched, not moving an inch, her mouth hanging open ever-so-slightly.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “Please forgive me.”

“That’s the strongest mace on the market,” she muttered. She looked at the tiny tube, sneered, then tossed it down the alley, where it hop-skipped out of sight. Turning her head back to him, she spoke again, this time warily. “You need money or something? You’re not dressed like you need money.”

He returned the handkerchief to his pocket, met her eye. “You think I waited here to rob you?”

“I don’t… well why  _are_ you here?”

“I enjoyed your company and hoped to extend our time together.” A pause, then he added, “I have no desire to have sex with you.”

“Gee, thanks?”

He began to respond, hesitated, then opted to go with, “I’m told I’m not… not very good at… this.”

“Making friends?”

“Mmmm.”

“Well, it’s… it’s late.”

He glanced at his watch. “So it is.”

“And I don’t even know your name.”

“Michael.”

“Michael. Okay. I have a brother named Michael. Mikey, if I want to piss him off.”

“Were your parents religious?”

“What?!” she exclaimed, though she chased it with an amused grin. “You ask the strangest questions. Um, no. Not really.”

“And  _your_ name?”

“I, uh… don’t give out my name to strangers.”

“Wise. But I need to call you something.”

“Hmmm… I don’t really…”

He waited. 

She snapped her fingers. "My family nicknamed me Grace. The way they talk, I’ve been clumsy since the womb.” She rolled her eyes.

“That sounds cruel.”

She laughed, but it was short, clipped. “Nah. Annoying, maybe. But they didn’t mean anything by it. Your family not have a nickname for you?”

He shook his head. “No. They called one of my brothers the star. He… shone a little too brightly.”

She nodded. “I have a friend like that. Drama queen. Sucks up all the air in a room, as my mother would say.”

“May I call you Grace?”

She laughed again, the full version this time, and said, “I ruined your pants, so I owe you. Yeah, sure. Go for it.”

He walked her to her car, but they kept chatting - the coffee shop began as a speakeasy, he informed her, and a two-way mirror once hung over the bar so as to keep an eye out for the police. And the conversation drifted with them as they meandered down the street, ended up in a park, sitting in swings sandwiched between a slide and a sandbox, lazily letting their feet trail through gravel, him allowing her to think he was a history buff, her telling him how she’d been born in another nondescript town in another nondescript state. How as the years passed, it had started to feel like another world.

And when it was her turn to ask about the past, it called up from within him the desire to lie to her -  _protect_ her - for the second time that night. So he chose his words carefully.

“I had assignments. One that was the most… I was supposed to guard people. Defend them, when needed. And… and I did a good job for quite awhile. My commander was pleased. But then things… happened. I let an enemy invade. I wasn’t strong enough. Not enough to stop him.”

“You don’t have to go into detail if you don’t want to,” Grace said quietly. She laid a hand over his.

“People died.”

“Oh.”

“They saw me as a protector. There was a time when some practically worshiped me, thought I was worthy of it.” He made a scoffing sound. “I started to believe I  _was_.”

He’d never had a single regret, never let himself fall into the abyss of memories. But even he could be brought -  _broken_ , more accurately - out of his routine. And the most immediate period of his existence had done just that, making times of calm a desire, while in the same moment making times of silence an irritant.

He looked down at their hands, flipped his, threaded his fingers through hers, and she didn’t stop him.

They sat, unmoved, no words, for several minutes; three-point-two-one-six, in fact, because he counted them. His mind never rested, even when the hunter’s did, but he liked how she didn’t feel the need to fill the emptiness with idle talk. Made for a touch of calm. Even with the silence.

It held a bit of irony - he was the silent type, everyone said so. He’d found it often communicated intent better than any words could’ve. And more descriptions piled on:  _Imposing_.  _Intimidating_.  _Towering_.  _Threatening_. Some had called him “Beast” long before it had been applied to their once-adored morning star.

So there it was - there’d already been a second lie, and he hadn’t even noticed.

“I don’t mean to frighten you,” he told her, staring at her intently, but this time she didn’t look away.

“You said that already,” she replied, a solemn smile on her lips, not too wide, not too thin, just the right sort, and he hoped he reciprocated in kind. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, saying, “Michael… I mean,  _my_ Michael —–”

The hunter’s belly stirred.

“—– you know, my brother, he’s in the service. He’s a Ranger. He doesn’t tell our family a lot of stories from when he fought, but he’s told me some. So if it’s anything like that, then… I can understand. I can try, I mean.”

“I led the entirety of our legion.”

“You’re… you seem a little  _young_ to be… what would it be, a general, I guess? Or do you mean you led your division? Or squadron? I know some of the terminology, you don’t have to dumb it down for me.”

“I’ve offended you.”

“No, it’s… don’t worry about it, it doesn’t matter.”

“It very much matters. How people treat one another. People can be vile, sadistic, horrible creatures.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I  _guess_. But we’re the only ones here. And  _I’m_  not horrible, and  _you’re_ not horrible, soooo…”

“You’re right,” he lied for the third time, and with one of the hunter’s brightest smiles.

Which made Grace shine.

 _Go_.

The hunter did as he was commanded.

Michael thought she tasted like sin.

.

* * *

.

“Okay. Tomorrow. I’m off work, but we can meet at the coffee shop, figure out what to do from there… around noon sound good?”

He nodded. “That sounds perfect. Thank you, Grace.”

She nodded in return, got in her car, and gave him a little wave as she pulled away.

_Is this your plan, hunter? How you think you’ll undo me? Making me more like you?_

_Hey, I haven’t been driving for awhile now. Ass._

_Hmmm._

_You kissed her._

_What makes you say that?_

_When you let me leave the bad boy corner, I could tell. Or else you’re putting strawberry lip balm on my—-_

_Apple._

_Huh?_

_It’s apple._

He waited at her apartment, this time deep in the shadows where he wouldn’t be spotted, made sure she got inside safely, listened for the click that told him she’d locked the door. He began to leave, then thought better of it, decided to play guardian for old times’ sake, placed warding here and there to keep any would-be harm away. And back to walking he went, considering how to kill the hours til they met again.

May as well strike up a conversation.

_Now that we’ve spent some time together, tell me - Why didn’t we do this sooner? What's it been for you, about a decade?  
_

_You’re a douche._

_Fine. But comparatively?_

_There’s not a douche scale, dick._

_So I’m altogether irredeemable?_

_Uh - is there some universe where you aren’t?_

_Perhaps._

_So prove it! Let me go! And LEAVE ME ALONE._

Fair enough.

If he were to put a not-so-fine point on his reasoning for not meeting her the next day, that about summed it up. He’d disappoint her, she’d disappoint him, and if she didn’t, that was no good. Probably worse. Better to keep unattached when it came to what the future… what  _he_ … would likely bring.

Even so, he found himself once more standing apart, likely imposing, always watching, this time through a window, across hallowed grounds, looking for his grace. He spotted her at the very table he’d been at when they met, scrolling through her phone, occasionally sipping on a latte. Then there’d be a sigh, a glance to the large clock on the opposite wall as five, then ten, then fifteen minutes passed by.

_What say after this, we head to the cage, check on that counterpart of mine?_

This time, he received an unusually placid response.

_Why?_

_To ensure he’s paying for what he’s done._

_Like you haven’t been thinking of nuking this world. You’re still jonesing for your apocalypse. You know you want a do-over._

_The world could use some cleansing, true. There’s reasons. But, no. That’s not why._

_Then what?! How many times are you planning on dragging me over there, making sure he hasn't popped the lock so you can keep up your stupid act? They’re gonna figure it out soon, Cas or Sam—_

_I thought of all people, you’d understand._

_Understand WHAT? It’s payback? ‘Cause the first thing *he* did was make a beeline to take you out?_

_He killed my brother. With my own sword, no less. And that above all, Dean, I will not abide._

Grace picked up her bag, left a few bills on the table, and as she walked out the door, placed a phone call.

“Yeah, he stood me up… no, no, I’m not… Seriously! I’m not mad, I’m just, you know… yeah. I thought he was different… No, you’re right, and I’m sure he had a good reason, and I told you he didn’t have a phone with him, right? So it’s not like he could’ve…. oh God, no he wasn’t lying, why do you assume every dude…. Anyway, maybe I’ll see him again. I think that’d be nice…”

Well, then. Not so predictable, after all. Not this one. At least, for now.

Teaching the world a lesson could wait for just one more day.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed - Nash.


End file.
